Shadows Still Remain
by jtm1848
Summary: Travis Mayweather continues to deal with the aftereffects of the Xindi mission. Note: rated M intentionally. Always intended to turn this into a longer story, but never got around to it.


The pain in his head told Travis that he was alive.

And he cursed it.

Travis awoke into pain; the pounding, nauseating thunder between his temples, the stuffy, swollen aches towards the rear of his mind, the lightning bolts shooting sharply through his neck; unsteadily, he raised one hand, pressing his fingertips against the bridge of his nose, and a new pain erupted within, one that threatened to overwhelm his sensibilities. Nonetheless, he clung to it, pouring his focus into the misery seeking to save his thoughts from the carnivorous maelstrom below. The swirling mixture of cloudy pain threatened him, offering to overwhelm his consciousness, subjugating it into the undifferentiated depths of swollen nothingness; but he clung on, choking back the nausea induced by his throbbing brain.

It wouldn't go away; and all he wanted, in that moment, was to sit on the side of his bed, his head cradled between his knees pressing on both sides in the forlorn hope of easing the misery that engulfed him. Nothing else—no other thought, no other awareness—disturbed him; and as he winced in pain, he pleaded for the pain to go away, _to just go away,_ even for a single moment of solace.

Bile shot upward through his throat, nearly erupting before Travis could reflexively choke it back; and the actions caused new waves of misery, as suborned aches and exhausted pains were harshly torn asunder. In desperation, Travis crunched his stomach, trying to roll to one side but his body met resistance, and he slumped back, his skin sheathed in the glistening effects of painful exertion.

A faint echo of a voice, calling from some far-distant place, intruded into his mind. "Are you okay?" it asked, and the weight holding him down shifted sharply; relieved of the extra burden, Travis' chest spasmed with harsh contractions, shooting flecks of phlegm from his mouth as he hacked up the fluid settling in his half-repaired lungs. Involuntarily, as internal stitches ripped out, he rolled over into a near-fetal ball; his eyes still closed, with one hand frantically feeling about beside the bed, Travis ejected the contents of his body into a disposal pail. The piercing stings told him all he needed to know: the holes torn through his stomach had reopened during the night.

Slumped on the side of the bed, not wanting to move, Travis rested with the front of his face over the edge. The exertions, at least, seemed to be over, but only for a moment; they would no doubt begin anew within a few minutes. He could feel the soreness and aches in every muscle of his body, from those too rigid to relax to those too battered to flex, and he swore silently that even his bones hurt, somewhere deep inside .

"Are you okay?" the voice asked again, and again Travis did no answer; in the green-laced storm behind his eyes, the voice was scarcely ephemeral, meaningless in the wind. He fumbled about with one hand, nearly slamming the fingertips into the nightstand; and with repeated tries, he slid the drawer open. Fumbling fingertips located the pill bottle within and pulled it out, his thumb popping off the lid with surprising dexterity.

Travis wavered for a moment; not due to any thoughtful pause, but rather the need to ease his body yet again, releasing the added strain that the movements had caused. Unsteadily, he raised his head, nearly swimming in a lake of nausea; and he titled the pill bottle into his mouth, unable to focus clearly enough to count. Satisfied that some number had gone in, he dropped the container back in the drawer.

Fumbling again, Travis waved his hand about in the air for an extended moment before relocating the nightstand. He remembered—faintly as if seeing a shadow in the new moon—leaving a glass there the night before. His hand fell upon the glass, and its physicality gave him a surge of strength rocking his head back, he slammed the liquid down his throat, suppressing the need to gag on the warm, cheap vodka.

Exhausted, Travis fell onto his back, letting his head tumble into the cradle of his pillow. He could feel the liquor hitting his system; he could feel as it loosened his chest, and eased his battered breathing, as it stabilized the swirling colors in his mind, as it shot new waves of fire from his stomach before settling down into a dull ache.

Finally, Travis opened his eyes.

His companion was across the room, facing away from him—she always did so during his morning ritual, whether for his sake or her own—standing naked before drapes flung wide open. She bounced slightly, giving a jiggle to her plump cheeks; but no sunlight streamed in to highlight the softness her fair skin.

His head rolled to one side on the pillow, Travis forced his eyes to focus, reaching past the alluring curves of his bedmate; the sky outside was hazy and gray, with barely a hint of the midday sun that should be shining. Instead, a cold drizzle pattered against the ground, and Travis shivered as he imagined the fat, cold droplets that splattered into endless puddles and created miniature lakes. There was nothing beyond but the grays and browns, the skies and the denuded trees, the despondent, enervating blocks of cracked thermoconcrete and ashen cement composites.

Somewhere, far off in the distance, he could hear a faint rumble, the painful reminder of the turbulent storms that tore through the skies each night. If he imagined it, perhaps, there on the edge of the dingy artifice, a sliver of light shot downward, splitting the indistinct horizon in two; but it disappeared as quickly as it came, washed out in the leaden brume.

The pain in his head swelled in intensity, throbbing against his temples, sending waves of nauseous torrents down his throat and to his belly; he sank backward, his head falling into the pillow, the comforting softness wrapping around his mind.

"Are you awake?" she asked at last, and he imagined her turning to face him, one arm wrapped around her torso, cradling a pair of perky breasts; the other held aloft, fingers pinched about the ampakine pipe held fast between her teeth. Her hair was matted with sweat, the remnants of the night's affair; and her skin was smooth and unblemished in the blushing glow of youth.

Travis groaned softly, and rued it silently as the vibrations rattled his mind, setting off a chorus of complaints in his battered mind. He dared not crunch up, he dared not roll over to quell the misery, even as nausea ripped through him; the reconstructed lining of his abdomen could little handle the twisting strain, even to spite the constant sting of leaking fluids eating away within.

"We have to be at the elementary school by noon," she reminded him, hesitation strong in her voice as she felt out the morning's sickness. "And the doctor by two."

 _"Shit,"_ Travis murmured, and the imprecation gave him a wave of relief. "Can we skip?"

His companion gazed at him with cool reproach. "You know we can't, Travis," she replied. "Starfleet agreed to send someone."

"So they send me." The words, though in retort, came out weakly. "I guess I'm better than nothing."

"You're a member of the _Enterprise_ , Travis," she answered softly, stepping over towards the bed. "You were—are—a member of the senior crew. The school is lucky to get you."

Travis sighed in resignation. "Can we skip the doctor, or postpone him, or something?" He was due in for minor surgery: remove two artificial ribs and take out the mechanical regulator on his biosynthetic lung replacement.

 _But they won't,_ Travis knew, without having to query the surgeons. He knew what they would say: _Your body isn't up to the strain. Not today, at least. We can't operate with your body in this condition. You need to take better care of yourself, Travis._

 _Oh well,_ he thought, listening to the cold rain smacking on the concrete outside. _Nothing lasts forever._


End file.
